The mother of my ex-lover from ages ago dies. He must carry her limp, bloated and already yellowing body for several city blocks. I forget how the death happened, but at first, it had nothing to do with a mother and a son but with a man and his love. I was the man carrying the dead lover for a while. I felt that incomprehensible lack of fear of the inhumane—felt love toward a corpse that was once animated by my favorite soul. I carried it with arms crossed, cradling her head to my chest. I can still feel it.

My ex places his shrivelling, graying mother on a bed in his room, a house I haven’t been to in years and, simultaneously, the room I am about to move into next week. The entire rest of the dream is painted in the sullenness of this one death.

I am outside a general store in Torrance, or Redondo, or some familiar town. It is night. I see a single comet span the entire night sky. After this, every single star slides into motion; erratic, brilliant, bright. I call my sister to tell her about the “meteor shower” and to urge her to come meet me. It is very important to me that she doesn’t miss it, yet she never comes.

I am back in my ex’s home again. He brings me upstairs and gives me back all my old dresses. They’ve been in his closet for seven years, untouched. Then he asks me to choose between a small, egg-shaped beaded box and a straw fedora. I choose the box. Inside is a strange, prickly round object that is a lot like the center of a flower, magnified.